
Class f^3S~l / 
Book_./ )?^?<^ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



POEMS 



POEMS 



BY 

HYDE FOWLKES 



NEW YORK 

THE COSMOPOLITAN PRESS 

1911 






Copyright 1911 by 
HYDE FOWLKES 



%%0rO 



©CI.A303422 



TO MY DEAR MOTHER ^ 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

loneness 9 

The Venus of Milo 12 

The Beautiful 14 

The Lady of the Castle 16 

Those Eyes 21 

The Worker 23 

Xmas Time, 1905 24 

The Little Grove on the Hill 26 

America for Jesus 27 

Centennial Hymn 29 

Sunday Morning 31 

"Beside all Waters" 33 

The Golden Wedding of Dr. and Mrs.'C. of Hollins 

Institute 36 

A Kiss 38 

Ich Dien 40 

Combermere Abbey , . . .^ . . . . 41 

Twilight Dreamings . . X^-^t €^^^'^. ^'^ . 49 

Lost 52 

The Sun is Going Down 53 

To Mary 54 

Then and Now 56 

The Mystery 57 

Sorrow 59 



8 CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Lucille 60 

Smithfield 62 

''Uncle" Henry's Grave 64 

The Death of Harry Ross 65 

The Last Letter 68 

Liz, 1897 69 

Modest Swain Cuts Unexpected Figure 70 

Little Sarah 71 

Fable of the Fox and Goose 72 

The Burning of the Stables at Night 75 

Beppo's Lament for His Master 78 

Lament for Little Beppo 80 



POEMS 



LONENESS* 
(On the Rhigi) 

Upon an air-hung peak I stood at dawn, — 
A snow-crowned Alpine height, — and gazed afar 
Into the east, where moon and stars are bom, — 
Where earth and heaven estranged kiss in the rare, 
Ethereal boundlessness of space : — 
And I of dread immensity's embrace. 
Part was, yet was not, e'en though face to face : 
And loneness wrapped my soul. 

Then from the glowing Orient sublime. 

Flashed forth the light 'gainst Jungfrau's crystal 

peak, 
On wing of fire, and swifter far than time. 
Blazed o'er the kingly Matterhorn to break 
And weave 'round Monte Rosa's glittering heads, 
The wondrous splendor of its golden threads ; 
Then, like some grand archangel in its flight, 
Spanned Leman's flood to gleam on Jura's height, 
Fair as the smile of God; — as though it quite 
O'erflooding Heaven, fell in effulgence bright, 
Of roseate glory o'er the mountain's brow, 
Kindling old Jura's hoary, pallid snow 

*For the Abou ben-Adhem of his day. 



lo POEMS 

Into a fiery altar-cloth whose glow 
Mantled a great white shrine, a mercy-seat, 
Where gleamed in gracious confirmation sweet, 
Shekinah awful, of His presence there. 
How to my soul such grandeur brought despair ! 
My spirit yearned alone. 

The morning and the noontide passed, and night, 
Earth's glories veiling, lit the starry deep: — 
Beyond the Pleiades blazed Sirius' light, 
And world on world afar. And where the sweep 
Of sense refused, deft reason soared and read 
The tide of space and worlds in ceaseless spread, 
Wherein did I alone, an atom, tread, 
Whelmed in infinity. 

And I bethought me how in childhood's years, — 
The midnight cricket singing on the hearth, — 
I lay with bated breath and sleepless fears. 
Pondering on time that knew nor death, nor birth : 
My childish heart stood still, so clear did come 
The sense that that about me was not home; — 
Alone within a wilderness and dumb, 
With some dread entity. 

Life's day is now far spent, the night draws near, 
And chill the winds blow from the silent shore, — 
Across the darksome tide, a boat doth steer. 
And I must meet one never met before. 
I cannot draw back, subterfuges fail; 
With thee, O Death, nor bribes nor prayers avail; 
'Tis T, I all alone, must bid thee hail, 
Hail, for eternity. 



POEMS II 

There is no help, and none may take my place, 
Nor closest friend shall bear me company : 
Each loathsome feature of thy cold embrace 
Is mine, and mine, its dread fatality. 
And now know I as ne'er I knew before, 
Though 'mid the babbling crowd the great world's roar, 
All other souls to mine are naught — nor more. 
In bare reality. 

I may have guessed it in some fitful mood; 

Perchance divined it in some loftier flight ; 

'Mid desolation, may have understood. 

And comfortless, been moved to judge aright: — 

Not throbbings waked by boundless seas, or skies, 

Not yearnings born of beauty's fairest light. 

Not glimpses of the infinite that rise, 

Nor anguish fanned by sorrow's sharpest breath, 

3o chill the heart with this cold truth, O Death. 

Yet, in this loneness that enshrouds my soul. 

This vague unrest for majesty ne'er mine, 

I trace my title to some loftier goal 

Where grosser sense shall dim not the divine. 

And as the meteor of the trackless waste. 

In orb eccentric moving, yet obeys 

Some influence potent through the starry maze. 

So I, though wandering, shall draw home at last. 



12 POEMS 

THE VENUS OF MILO 

(Apotheosis of Helen) 

(For my old friend, Judge W. R. S.) 

O marble maid, in whose fair, sorrowing eyes, 
The vanished Hght of Hellas beameth still, — 
In whose divine though stricken form enshrined, 
The soul of beauty from the past doth dwell. 
Awakened, haply, from thy long-drawn sleep, — 
Teach us thy myst'ry — who and whence thou art, 
And why so deep hath slumbered. 

A MeHan? No, nor of the Spartan born. 
On Melos' wind-rocked isle; the peerless grace 
Of queenly Athens breathes in every line 
And wakes to life translated through 
The glorious fairness of thy matchless face. 

As some rare, heaven-born bird whose passage 
bright 
Is marked by radiant plume cast here or there. 
So she, a moment panting on this seagirt shore 
And faint in her last agony, left thee, 
Fair symbol of her weary, hurried rest. 

But thou,— 
Might'st thou behold the haughty Spartan wear 
The diadem snatched from grand Athena's brow, 
Or plant the foot imperious, on her breast, 
Quench the fair eye of Hellas, nor thine own, 
Close on a world despoiled? 

The busy-spinning Moerae in the threads 
Of centuries have wound up nations, creeds, 



POEMS 13 

And empires; Macedon hath swallowed Greece, 
And Rome hath trod on Macedon ; and lo ! 
The gloom of Islam's palsying night hath sat 
Where fair, torch-bearing Hellas lit the world; 
But tranquil through shame's biding day, unroused. 
Thou slumb'redest, until, oh, auspicious fate ! 
The glory of thy waking crowneth ours. 

The wail of Aegospot'mos' fatal day, 
Thy knell did speak, but Navarino's shout 
Rang glorious echoes forward into ears 
That long had waited. 

O, fairest, sweetest myst'ry, shattered, marred. 
Thy wondrous spell doth wax but stronger still 
Through all the hoary mists of woes and years; 
For grace of beauty dead, strikes tenderer far 
Than freshest glories of an undimmed prime. 

What need we vex ourselves with whether 
thou 
Wert in the sculptor's hand some Venus, or 
The stern Electra, or repentant Phaedre? — 
Or if those perished arms did plead with Mars, 
Or toyed with mirroring shield of Jove's dread son? — 
What, if the lost right hand, perchance, did bear 
Proud Vict'ry's symbol ; or that symbol now 
Be stricken from thee? Still, O Queen, 
Doth triumph breathe around thy glorious head 
And Attic splendor linger on thy brow. 

Perchance, thou art the Cnidian twice escaped 
The wrathful flames, insensate to all else 
Save beauty such as thine ; or tell us now — 
For thou alone canst know — if Helen thou, 
The star-eyed wand'rer from the Argive shore 



14 POEMS 

As o'er the Sc?ean gate she waits, her soul 
Deep searching with that far-off, sorrowing gaze, 
Into the dark, dire mysteries of fate, 
While bloody strife of heroes on the plain 
Falls on sweet eyes insensible. 

Yes, Helen, thou ! not as she lingered 'neath 
The feath'ry palms of Egypt's radiant skies, 
Nor phantom Helen of fair Illium's halls, 
But Leda's love-tossed daughter, crystallized 
In this fair, thrilling marble. Thus, behold ! 
O, wand'ring, weary, beauteous Spartan Queen, 
Accomplished is thy strange apotheosis; 
For thou a goddess art, worshipped of men ; 
Thy scepter, love-compelling beauty still, 
As in the young world's early, storm-swept mom, 
Stern nations bled and battled for thy smile. 



THE BEAUTIFUL 
(A Mountain Sunset) 

The valley flow'rets nestle at my feet; 
Beyond in boldest rhythm grandly flows 
Th' empurpled range of everlasting hills. 
While hovering soft, in fleecy splendors piled, 
The sunset glories gild the dusky chain. 
Entranced, a worshipper, I gaze and read 
Fair Nature's language of the beautiful. 

My dog here at my side doth kiss my hand, 
His orbs, as mine, empicture sky and plain; 
Ho, Carlo! eager friend, responsive, true. 
Intent, with ear erect and eye ablaze, 



POEMS 15 

Of all this vision fair, what markest thou? 
Lo, but the scampering rabbit of the sedge ! 
For One hath oped in human soul alone, 
Eyes for the beautiful. 

And thus it is 
That in the simple daisy's upturned face, 
Or winged beam of evening's liquid star, 
Or floating soft in music's tender breath, 
The same sweet glimmerings to me strangely come 
Of some fair wonder in the great Beyond, 
Mantling my soul in a divine despair 
That proves it kindred with th' infinite Source. 

A thousand symbols, too, bespeak the true; 
Reflected, it doth gleam in changeless laws 
Of starry systems ; in the measured face 
Of wayside crystal, writes itself, the same 
Eternal order which my soul doth own, 
Mirrored from the sublime Invisible. 
And likewise doth my heart an echo wake 
Unfailing, though too faint, where'er it marks 
However dim, reflection of the good. 
The true, the good, the beautiful proclaim. 
As to old Plato's waiting soul, to mine. 
Silent, yet deep, the same grand unity. 
But clearest, sweetest, comes His voice to me 
From out the mystery of the Beautiful. 

And where is truth, if in the grand Beyond, 
There be no perfect banquet of the soul? — 
If this vague, restless yearning, undefined, 
That thrills me at the "splendor of the true," 
Find not its principle? I feel, I know. 



i6 POEMS 

"When I awake I shall be satisfied ;" 
For "I shall see," and powers glorified, 
Shall measure well, and know as face to face, 
Unveiled and undisguised, the Substance of 
The glorious shadow we, prophetic, name 
The Beautiful. 

THE LADY OF THE CASTLE* 

Em weary of the splendor that now is mine. 
For one dear look and tender caress of thine 
I'd give it all so gladly; — yes, all resign; 
But now the thought comes sadly, too late I pine. 

Through stately halls I wander on velvet pile, 
And glittering arches under, I stroll the while, 
Where all in beauty vying would sure beguile 
A heart that was not dying, into a smile. 

*A younger branch of the powerful family of de G , 

bearing with them great wealth and hereditary notions of 
social rank, emigrated for political reasons to a certain sea- 
washed peninsula of North America, formerly a colony of 
France. A chivalrous young scion of the Old World branch 
traveled frequently back and forth on missions of importance 
between the families. Himself without possessions, he was 
expected to advance his fortunes by marriage with one of the 
wealthy heiresses of the house. However, through some 
caprice of fate, he fell fatally in love with an interesting and 
high-spirited young music governess employed in the emi- 
grant family. She returned his passion, but pride and pique 
at the hauteur of his relatives and a deep regard for the 
best interests of her lover, bade her smother her heart and 
make no sign. He sailed again for France on a short absence, 



POEMS 17 

So long I had been wandering without a home, 
It seemed but idle pondering, when bid to come 
And rest me in this haven, from life's rude storm. 
For once, be it forgiven, that love was dumb. 

I deemed it best to smother the hidden fire. 
To quench within me, rather, my wild desire. 
Your haughty race would spurn me; and pride, e'en 

higher 
Than love, rose up to turn me, and strength inspire. 

Then love itself forbade me to mar thy lot. 
And oft, when wavering, prayed me to falter not: 
Thou shouldst not know I loved thee, e'en one poor 

jot; 
But once, too far, you tried me; 'tis not forgot. 

'Twas evening, none was near us, we sang alone ; 
And your dark eyes, imperious, sought deep my own ; 

still cherishing hope, when there came to his perplexed lady- 
love, a suitor of both rank and wealth. She, weary of pov- 
erty and impatient of inferior position, fancied that the acqui- 
sition of these would drown the voice of love. This suitor 
was accepted and, after marriage, all was ease and splendor. 
But soon the novelty of grandeur subsiding, her heart began 
to make itself heard, and not long after, her lover returning, 
was wrecked on the nearby dangerous shore and his drowned 
body brought up to the castle. With recognition of the well- 
loved face came realization that with the life of the lost one, 
the light of her own had gone out. The splendors of her 
palace by the sea could not drown for her the thought of him 
whose memory lived in every moan of the sea's ceaseless 
rollings. 



i8 POEMS 

Unguardful, mine betrayed me; one look — 'twas 

done; 
Bewildered, powerless, made me ; my secret won. 

And then, the love-tide swelling, — so long repressed, 
Swept o'er me, unrebelling, as to your breast 
You drew me ; — ah, scarce willing to make protest 
Against thine arms, compelling to such sweet rest. 

As on my lips you printed the lingering kiss, 

Was't strange that strength relented, mid such sweet 

bHss ? 
That, wearied with love's striving, was once remiss, 
And found me, on reviving, mid love's abyss? 

'Twas but a moment's weakness, and I awoke; 
But oh, the cruel bleakness of the rude shock ! 
Crushing my heart's wild pleadings, away I broke 
From thy fond arms entreating, without one look. 

Erelong, thy fortune called thee, once more the main 
To tempt ; and tho't appalled me, to render vain, 
Thy strong, impassioned pleadings to meet again, — 
My stoic heart, unheeding, bade me refrain. 

But when all gathered round thee, with sad good-byes, 
And one brief moment found me beneath thine eyes, 
I could not lift mine, burning, lest in their guise 
The world of ardent longing, thou might'st surprise. 

And then, when thou hadst left me, alone, alone, 
And with thy going reft me of all but scorn, 
T felt thy proud ones marking my spirit's tone. 
To note, perchance, the aching, if such were borne. 



POEMS 19 

What wonder that my spirit within did burn 
To show them, should they dare it, that it could spurn 
The wooings of their scion? Though I did yearn 
As Dian for Orion, this should they learn. 

Heartsick, alone, and friendless, a wooer came 
With rank, untold possessions, a noble name. 
How sweet to turn their scorning to envy's flame. 
To pass from night to morning, from naught to fame ! 

Oh, often in life's story we act such part. 
In tyrant passion's glory, o'erride the heart; 
For one brief moment's swelling, an age's smart, 
On our wronged breast's entailing a deathless dart. 

Yet pride and exultation, though sweet and strong. 
And fed on richest portion, survive not long; 
But murdered love, immortal, returns, a throng, 
To storm the half-shut portal and venge its worng. 

And thus, though for a season the splendors gained, 
And changing scene and reason too sternly reigned 
O'er love that seemed to slumber, the sleep was 

feigned ; 
For soon the whitened ember glowed, crimson stained. 

The tidings, oh, the tidings ! The treacherous main 
Had gulfed thee in its hidings, oh, grief ! oh, pain ! 
There is not tongue, nor language, nor labored strain. 
Could paint the faintest image; 'twere vain, 'twere 
vain. 

As some exhausted casket reft of perfume, 

As some storm -blighted floweret no more to bloom, 



20 POEMS 

As some fair, radiant planet gone out in gloom, — 
My heart is ; and within it no light doth loom. 

I know now, though unheeding, till bitter taught, 
That 'mid my wildest straying 'twas still some thought 
That this same world contained us, strange solace 

brought, — 
That some bond still enchained us, with hope was 

fraught. 

For now that thou no longer the vital air 
Dost breathe, my soul's deep hunger feeds on despair; 
The light of day seems darkness, thou dost not share. 
The bloom of earth but blackness, without thee here. 

The south wind's softest sighing seems as a wail, 
And sunset's glories dying, a somber veil ; 
The song of birds, a requiem to joys that fail 
The hopes that eager seek them without avail. 

As ofttimes in my dreaming thou drawest near, — 
In sad, sweet fancies teeming I seem to hear 
Thy tones in music stealing soft on my ear : 
I feel again the beaming thine eyes did wear. 

Thou dead ! Oh, cold reflection ; oh, strange, oh, 

drear ! 
Thou dead ! Oh, 'tis some fiction that haunts me sore ! 
That loved voice stilled forever ! A thing of yore ! 
Thine eyes to meet mine never, oh, never more? 

Ah, in our heart's December, with sorrows strewn, 
'Tis bitt'rest to remember its sunny June; 



POEMS 21 

The bloom of joys now faded, forever gone; 
The light of days departed, ne'er to return. 

And now as round my castle the bleak winds sigh, 
I watch the wild waves wrestle, with wistful eye, 
As prisoned, vainly leaping, they seek to fly 
Beyond their bound's stern keeping defiantly. 

They cannot burst their prison, but silently 
They shall within short season, rise from the sea, 
In vapor's mystic fashion, insensibly, 
'Scape thy vexed bosom, ocean, and soar away. 

And thus my fettered spirit, that fain would flee 
These bonds of sense that bar it so hopelessly, 
Shall, hke the mists of ocean, refined and free. 
On wings of rapt devotion, float up to thee. 



THOSE EYES 

I shall not see them more, those vanished eyes! 
And yet they haunt me sore; their glories rise 
And wrap me as of yore; oh, matchless eyes! 

Once they did speak to mine, those tender eyes! 
A language all divine glowed in their dyes, — 
My soul bowed at the shrine of those fair eyes. 

Like some 'reft child I fret for those lost eyes. 
Would they might give me yet, some sweet surprise ! 
If not, oh, to forget those wakeless eyes ! 



22 POEMS 

'Tis long since Death did close those peerless eyes ; 
On me hath wept the dews of alien skies, 
But linger still the hues of those bright eyes. 

Mine own are dimmed with tears, but those dead eyes 
Shine through the mists of years in fadeless guise; 
Nor breath of sorrow sears those quenchless eyes. 

As some sad, sweet refrain, those haunting eyes 
Sweep o'er my soul a strain of melodies, 
Soothing as tearful rain from sorrowing eyes. 

Like stars, that being set, those radiant eyes 
Refracted, linger yet in memory's skies. 
Deathless as love's regret for cherished eyes. 

I see them in my dream, those starlit eyes, 
And like a straying beam o'er wintry skies. 
On my dark heart, they gleam, — those spirit eyes. 

Oh, can it strangely be, such wondrous eyes 
Were formed of earth's poor clay? — For Paradise 
Did bloom again for me in those sweet eyes. 

And if so fair did shine, thy mortal eyes. 
Refined from nature's stain, what glorious guise 
Must rest on those divine and sinless eyes ! 

Now Death hath lit his gloom with those dear eyes, 

Not dark to me the tomb ; for o'er it rise. 

As stars to light me home, those long-loved eyes. 

Soon on the unseen shore Fll meet those eyes. 
And read me as of yore, sweet mysteries 
In what shall be no more but by-gone eyes. 



POEMS 23 



THE WORKER 

Oh, I have wrought where others sougiht 

To ease them of Hfe's labor, 
And hid my eyes from wooing joys 
With resolute endeavor. 

I shut my ears to siren prayers 
That softly whisper, 'Tarry 
Within the shades of these sweet glades, 
O Worker, from thy hurry; 

*'Nor tempt the sands of desert lands 

Whose pathways all uncertain. 

For well-earned spoil yield only toil 

Till falls life's closing curtain. 

''Nor, Pilgrim, dream the changeful beam 
That quivers o'er yon mountain 
Shall guide thee clear through mists and drear 
To Araby's blest Fountain. 

"Spurn not the flowers of Eden bowers 
That at thy feet are proffered. 
Nor scorn love's sighs that to thee rise 
As incense fondly offered." 

O, Tempter, thou! and thinkest now 

That I have done no dreaming, 
That o'er the soul no surges roll 

Of one so stolid seeming? 



24 POEMS 



Ah ! I have known the tender morn 
Of young Love's rosy weaving, 

And quenched its Hght back into night, 
Nor recked me of the grieving. 

I heeded not; my soul was set 

To make of Hfe a labor. 
Forgive the smart, oh, martyred heart, 

So wronged, and aye, forever! 

And now I work from dawn to dark, — 
From dark to dawn still waking, 

Must toil to fill the void that will. 
Though self-imposed, keep aching. 



XMAS TIME, 1905 
{Little Frank, seven years old) 

I 

Eet love of fun in childish years 
Give place to wisdom as life's cares 
Too early come; but now's the time 
To cheer my little heart with rhyme 
And giggle, giggle at the fun 
That lurks within a sneaking pun. 

II 

I'm not yet eight years old, and life 

Is all a holiday to me. 
Throughout the livelong day I eat, — 

I eat and eat and play, you see. 



POEMS 25 

And when night comes, I go to sleep, 
And sleep and rise up in the morn, 

And eat first thing — then run to play 
With 'Zander — sure as you are born. 

Ill 

I care one cent — not one — I say, 

For all the ''grown-ups" in this town, 

They are "no good," as I can see, 
But oft, too often, "call me down." 

IV 

I never think about 'em once 

When safely I am out of sight — 
And if they think 'bout me, they may. 

But if they don't, why, it's "all right." 



I'm just a selfish little boy 

That eats and eats and sleeps and plays, 
But some near by and some afar, 

Think oft of me, as fleeting days 
Bear swift my heedless little life 

To some far port dim in the haze 
Of years to come — and though I'm bad 
And careless, maybe, yet I'm glad 

That someone thinks and prays and prays. 



26 POEMS 

THE LITTLE GROVE ON THE HILL 



As I ope my eyes and listlessly rise, 

And the day-cares begin to press, 
In an absent way I pensively stray 

To my window-light as I dress. 

II 

The birds are awake, their soft warblings break, 
And the wild bee slumbers no more, — 

From the dewy cell of the lily's white bell. 
His solemn drone floats on my ear. 

Ill 

'Tis the early dawn, the night is scarce gone, 
And the world lies drowsy and still, — 

But there meets my eye 'gainst the morning sky, 
The little gray grove on the hill. 

IV 

The fresh breezes sigh in the trees on high. 
And the lone crows caw as they pass, 

But wake not an eye of sleepers that lie 
On the quiet hill 'neath the grass. 



And the blessed light as some spirit bright, 
Creeps soft o'er the mountain's dusk brow, 

And tenderly lays its tremulous rays. 
On the daisies that 'bove them grow. 



POEMS 37 

VI 

Aweary I grow as days come and go 
That bring but the same tasteless care, 

1 spiritless dress, half envious I bless 
The calm of the sleepers o'er there. 

VII 

I'm naughty, I know, and scarce can forego 

To start as I utter such will, — 
But hardly shall care if, dressing no more, 

Some morn I shall sleep on the hill. 

VIII 

Yes, faulty, I know ; yet dare I to go ; 

For, somehow, I'm trusting there's room 
Where One that is full shall make e'en me whole — 

For He bids th' imperfect to come. 



AMERICA FOR JESUS 

{A hymn for the Indian) 

O Sharon's rose, that first did blow 

'Mid Asia's fertile plain, 

Deign now thy graciousness to show 

Here, on our western main, 

Where every hill and vale we'd plant 

Till no waste spot be found ; — 

Not here and there a garden scant, 

But every inch of ground. 

Atlantic's strand our scythes would sweep, 



28 POEMS 

Pacific's slopes we'd sow; 

'Neath Rocky Mountains' swelling strip 

We would agleaning go. 

O Lily of the Valley, Thou 

Who meek and lowly wert. 

Come, let our mountain's loftiest brow 

Be with thy beauty girt. 

For then our hills would skip like lambs, 

Our proudest peaks would bow. 

Our streams and founts break forth in psalms 

And haste to pay their vow. 

Star of the East, arise to claim 

Thy western heritage, 

It, too, would bask beneath thy beam. 

Thy fullest love engage. 

Thou tarried'st long on Europe's shore 

While ours in midnight lay. 

Now, therefore, haste thy light to pour 

And flood us with thy day. 

From east to west, so rolls the tide. 

From east to west, the sun. 

Likewise, O Star of glory, guide 

Thy course till all is won. 

Though swart the dusky Indian's brow. 

Untutored though his mind. 

Thy grace him equal, will endow 

With fair Caucasian kind. 

The One Great Spirit long he'th sought 

In winds or cloud or rain; 

His soul, uncomforted, untaught, 

Hath yearned and groped in vain. 

Light of the World, thou knowest no east 



POEMS 29 



Nor west, nor frozen zone, 

Broad as the ruin of man is cast, 

Thy love is broadly known. 

And whether he who trusteth thee 

Be Cherokee or Creek, 

Before thy throne he'll stand as free 

As Roman proud or Greek. 

Our land, dear Saviour, we would bring, 

Not part, but all, to thee, 

Oh, henceforth, be its sovereign king 

Throughout Eternity. 

And though we would the world include 

And bind in gospel bands, 

Let us beware our brother's blood 

Be found not on our hands. 



CENTENNIAL HYMN 

A hundred years! Behold us bringing 
Praise, centennial, to our king, 
Every voice with gladness ringing; 
Joyfully, let us sing, — 

Let our nation come with richest offering. 

He who spans the vault of heaven, 
Measuring ages in his hand; 
At whose nod death's bands are riven. 
Doth watch o'er us, and defend : 

Exultation with hosannas let us blend. 



For his mercies rest as vesture 
Fashioned with peculiar care 



30 POEMS 

On us, people of his pasture, 
Planted in this western sphere. 

Such salvation calls for songs of praises rare. 

Let the Jew of ancient story 
Warn us not these trusts abuse, 
But to magnify his glory 
And his favor, fitly use: — 

Th' approbation of our sovereign ne'er to lose. 

He's a king ; we cannot render 
Grace for grace to such a Lord, 
But to him our hearts we'll tender, 
Spreading tidings of his word : — 

In every nation ; making Jesus king adored. 

A hundred years have in their passing 
Faithful, fearful record borne; 
Solemn evidence amassing, 
To be laid before the throne. 

Let compassion rest upon us through thy Son! 

The hundred years upon us dawning 
Tongues now vocal shall make dumb; 
Yet, though hearts to dust be turning, 
Faith, triumphant, bids them come. 

Their progression will but bear us safely home. 

In that radiant sphere supernal 
Centuries shall naught appear; 
Time may roll, but time eternal, 
Brings no change nor ending near. 

Adoration shall employ the ages there. 



POEMS 31 

Solemn thought! The next centennial, 
It shall find us where, oh, where? 
'Mid the joys of life perennial. 
Or 'mid darkness of despair? 

Gracious Father, seal us thine. Hear this our 
prayer. 

SUNDAY MORNING 

I sit this morn beside my window here 

And sweet the spring-bird trilleth through the air, 

This Sunday morning. 

From o'er the hill through the pellucid depth. 

The heaven-born sunbeam greets me with a warmth 

That knows no burning. 

As yet, the tears of night are gathered up 

Within the graceful bell, — the lily's cup 

With gems adorning; 

For breath of day, in gentle morning sighs, 

Not yet hath kissed from nature's gHstening eyes 

The dewdrops fawning: — 

And with the stillness of each quivering ray. 

There falls the effluence of the mystic day, 

My soul intoning; 

While greet me in the sunlight's tender glow, 

The Sabbath morns of the sweet long ago 

Of youth's glad gleaning — 

Like tones forgotten, from the voiceless shore, 

That on the ear of sense shall break no more 

In tender warning, 

And lift my w^orldly soul toward the home 

Whence these bright wanderers on their mission come 



32 POEMS 

To wake a yearning 

For the sweet holy peace that seems to fall 

On hill and vale, bird, tree, and flower — all, 

With heaven entwining. 

How little seem the pride, the petty strife, 

The vain ambitions of our paltry life, 

To such divining — 

As to our vision falls with this fair hour 

That breathes of truth and heaven, — the soul's true 

dower 
Aright discerning! 

The beams mount higher, fiercer now the glow : 
The morn's sweet calm and softening influence go 
Before the burning. 

The stirring noon draws on, and ruthless care 
To our tense life not one whole day will spare 
For better learning: — 

And to the waiting calls 1 turn regretfully, 
That Sabbath noon and eve cannot, too, be 
A Sabbath morning; 

For my world-ridden heart, sick and o'er driven 
With sordid conflicts, vain desires riven, 
Doth need the pruning 

Of this sweet, sacred hour. Would it might stay 
To bathe me in its pure empyrean ray, 
My soul refining! 

The beam that earliest kissed the waking gloom 
Is spanning far athwart the western dome 
And ever turning 

Somewhere, the weary, darksome night it finds, 
Brooding on nature's breast and burdened minds, 



POEMS 33 

To Sunday morning. 

I cannot fly with thee, ethereal beam, 

As from my wistful eye, departs thy gleam, 

The darkness spurning; 

But I may seek thy source, fount of all light. 

And wake some time from life's too lingering night 

Of toil and mourning. 

To rest me in thy peace, the balmy air 

And quenchless dews of an unending, fair, 

Sweet Sunday morning. 



"BESIDE ALL WATERS " 

The pool is dark and reeking. 
Shall I scatter here my seed. 
Where poisonous slime is sleeping 
Beneath the noisome weed? 
Shall I throw away my treasure 
On this dark, uncertain flood. 
Shall I gather back my measure? 
Will it render good for good? 

But, methought, not even less here 
I'd do than what I could. 

I stood beside a river 

As it rolled in mad career. 

And thought, "Oh, vain endeavor, 

To make a sowing here. 

I know not whither, sweeping, 

Twill bear my precious germs — 



34 POEMS 

With its waters wildly leaping, 
Shall I enter into terms?" 

Faith gone, methought, while weeping, 
I shall but feed the worms. 

1 paused beside the ocean 
As it tossed with angry roar. 
And broke in wild commotion 
Its waves along the shore. 
Sure, not beside such waters 
Should I rashly waste my seed. 
To bray them in the mortar 
Would be no idler deed. 

Faith whispers, ''From all quarters, 
Shall flow the promised mead." 

I strolled along the brookside 

As it wound through field and grove. 

And doubted not its good tide 

A constant nurse would prove. 

Quoth I, "This truly is the clime, 

And spot, wherein to strew," 

And questioned not but autumn's prime 

Would plenteous harvest show. 

By sight, instead of faith, this time, 
J walk and boldly sow. 

In after days I wandered forth 
In hope, yet most in fear 
Lest all my toil, but little worth. 
Should prove to wound me sore, 
I passed the pool, and lo, its bed 



POEMS 35 

With slime once covered o'er. 

Smiled forth with verdure, now o'erspread, 

As ne'er it smiled before: 

Scarce convinced, I wondering, said, 
"Is this the spot of yore?" 

With a soul no longer faint, 

I sought where next I sowed, — 

And who the fairy scene can paint 

That on my vision glowed? 

For 'mid the river on an isle. 

In strangest beauty grew, 

Bright flowers, from seeds which erstwhile 

With faltering hand I threw. 

So, too, may hearts once dark with guile 
Respond to trusts that woo. 

The sea had, too, proved faithful 

And trusted treasures cast 

On fertile shore, though wrathful, 

Secure from chilling blast. 

A golden harvest met my eye, 

And I, in rapture, turn 

And hopeful expectation high. 

To seek the trusted burn. 

The faithless brook, alas, was dry ; 
And I, a lesson, learn. 

'Tis this : beside all waters sow ; 

'Tis ours to plaff^ God's, to make grow ; 

If only where we judge we strew. 

Short will the harvest be; 

For there, 'tis oft we nothing find : — 



36 POEMS 

Saying we see, we are but blind. 
Tis faith alone can light the mind, — 

In trusting Thee, we see. 
Since He who "speaks and it is done," 
Who guides the course of stars and sun, 
Regards not most the end that's won, 
But what the intent be, 
Teach us to labor, come, or go. 
Or here, or there, with friends or foe. 
Beside all waters freely sow. 
And leave results to Thee,, 



THE GOLDEN WEDDING OE DR. AND MRS. C, 
OF HOLLINS INSTITUTE. 

{Greeting) 

All hail, most honored pair, beloved, revered ! 
All hail, on this auspicious day, which sees 
Time's dial finger cleave in equal parts, 
The mystic cycle of a century's disk 
Whose half is traversed by your blended lives ! 
Years, earnest years of effort, toil, and care; 
Years, glorious years of valorous sacrifice; 
Oh, years of doubt ofttimes, yet most of faith, 
And now, triumphant, crowned with all success! 

As perfume rare from flowers, to bounteous hands 
That nurtured, come the greetings ; — warm they rise 
Fragrant with gratitude as incense sweet, 
Before a shrine whence blessings have been showered. 
Hist ! on every breeze the benedictions, — 
Soft as the light that falls at eventide 



POEMS 37 

And sweet as rest that comes at close of day, 
Yet strong as hope that nerves the heart at morn, 
And full as joy that shouts a victory won. 
From o'er the mountain chain and distant river, 
From household ingles of our own broad land, 
From far-off wand'rers who in strong endeavor 
Tread patiently their paths at duty's hand. 
And whispered, too, by voices hushed forever — 
On wings of silence borne across the tide. 
Comes floating from the unseen shore, "All hail !" 

Oh, comrades valiant, of Hfe's lengthened march, 
Heroic through the toilsome campaign, 
On w^hom with equal hand life's changeful sky 
Hath smiled or showered in ever fitful phase — 
Ye who at dawn went forth with precious seed. 
Who've wrought and wept, kept heart and faith as one. 
Return ! — 'tis evening now, — bringing your sheaves : — 
Return rejoicing, and triumph together. 

On magic tongue let spellbound senates hang, 
'Round warrior's plume let fame's proud halo play, 
To slaves of gold, let earth her millions pour, — 
But they who, self forgetting, earnest toil 
To mould the heart aright, to lift the soul, 
To polish high the stones, foundation stones. 
Of what is man's best fabric, true and strong, — 
For such, let p?eans swell, let plaudits ring; — 
For they have builded wiser than they knew 
And carved out empire zvhich shall wax and hold. 



38 POEMS 

A KISS 
{Harper's Magazine) 

A kiss, a kiss ! What is a kiss ? 

A something light as air, or thought, 
Too rare for touch, for sound too soft. 

And yet with more than words 'tis fraught. 

Oh, deHcate, exquisite thing! 

Subtle thou art as radiant light, 
A sweet, unsatisfying myth, 

Thou mocking, tantalizing sprite. 

I know not why it is we kiss, — 

Some things there are we never know, 

Nor care to know if only true 
That ever it shall just be so. 

'Tis love's own language, low and sweet, — 
Friendship's content with other bliss. 

The clasp of hand, the greeting eye, — 
But only if we love, we kiss. 

A moment trembling into life, 

A thrill bewildering, and 'tis done; 

Like all things fair and lovely here. 
Almost before it is, 'tis gone. 

One instant lingering on the lip, 

A spell, it sweeps through heart and eyes. 

Pervades the soul's ethereal self, 
And then in sweetest mystery dies. 



POEMS 39 

But touch of immortality. 

Sure hath this sweet mysteriousness 
Jn which our souls run forth to greet 

And blend together in a kiss. 

Fit cradled on the sentient lip, — 
'Tis with the lips we pray, or bless, 

Breathe friendship's vow, or kindly smile, 
Or offer love's divine caress. 

The eye, it wanders here or there. 
Careless, to friend or foe may rove; 

The hand, a dubious language owns. 
But lips are sacred still to love. 

The kiss on brow beloved, in death, 
So deep it e'en might wake dead eyes, 

Who ever gave, nor felt its power 
To hush awhile the soul's dark cries? 

Oh, sorrowing kiss, oh, sacred kiss, 

That links us with the lost again, 
Almost our souls float out in thee. 

To join them in the fadeless plain. 

Thou wand'rest from some happier sphere, 
Thou thing that canst so much express, 

Or sacred grief, or tenderest joy, 
Oh, tell me, is it strange we kiss? 

Sweet spirit, all too transient here, 

Await us in the realms of bliss, — 
Life's season past, from death's cold sleep, 

Awake us, angels, with a kiss. 



40 POEMS 

ICH DIEN* 
(For Miss Mabel B.) 

From Crecy's plain France' army fled, 

Yielding its nation to the foe. 
While England's King and England's Prince 

Watched victory waver to and fro. 

Athwart the field, Bohemias's king 

Bore, hopeless, down on English ranks ; — 

What tho' his eyes were sere and blind. 
His spirit fired that doomed phalanx, 

And breathed from banner floating high, 

A motto mighty still to nerve 
Where duty calls, where'er the task — 

Whate'er the cost — ''Ich dien," I serve. 

We of to-day, in wisdom grown, 

Smile at vain chivalry of yore — 
Dead be its forms, but catch its soul 

And live to serve, nor count the score. 

Mark well the lesson to be learned 
Throughout the ages of life's game, 

And gather well the truth of truths — 
That life is measured by its aim: — 

No quest of some great boon for self 
In guise of pleasure, fame, or pelf, 
But moving steady, day by day, 

*The fatal charge of blind King John of Bohemia. Motto 
I serve. 



POEMS 41 

Uplifting others 'long the way, 

Content with the small, priceless crumbs 

From duty's board spread in life's slums — 

The sweeter grown to Spartan taste 

Trained and made strong in life's drear waste: — 

For all that serve, oh! there shall come, 

Fitness for the Eternal Home. 



COMBERMERE ABBEY 

{To her Grace, Katherine of Westminster) 

As on from Whitchurch out to Combermere, 
I dream, — as in the days that the good monks 
Cistercian, dwelt and built their Abbey there. 
Soft vesper bells still bless the ambient air, 
And chants from pious hearts I seem to hear. 

Patient, the tenor of their way they kept, — 
Times, Saxon, Norman, till, impatient, 
Th' unhesitating hand of Hal (yclept) 
From mere, monks, abbots, bells and all, it swept, 
Save sob at night, as though a lingerer wept. 

From that day on hath race of Cottons sat 
At Combermere; while — sacred, 'cross the seas — 
Names Richard, Dorothy, are Cottons' yet. 
But 'mong these woods it seems as here do flit 
Some phantom children's forms of "Dick" and "Dot," 
And childish voices fall with soft regret. 
And sounds familiar, as of little feet, — 
All strange, but kindred — that I can't forget. 



42 POEMS 

Anon, there comes to dreaming eye a pack 

Of hounds, fleetfooted, 'cross surrounding wolds, 

An Austrian Dian follows in the track. 

Gay cavalcade close pressing till, alack! 

The Empress fades into a dimness black. 

But whether Cottons' warrior charge the foe 
On India's plain or Spain's peninsula, 
Come visions past, of chivalry or woe, 
To child of Cottons (Devon Com'tenays, too). 
As this lone traveler here or there doth go 
About the meres, the woods, the carven Hall — 
Whether from out this ancient Abbey wall 
A mocking laugh or sorrowing sigh doth fall, 
Let none but softest winds these casements jar, — 
The fairest sunshine kiss this emerald bar, — 
No rude sounds waken from restoring cheer 
Light slumbers of Westminster's lady fair, 
Whose heart, to stranger, could a welcome bear 
That blesses her Grace, Katherine, with a prayer, 
As by her favor am I, grateful, here, — 
O home of mv forefathers, Combermere ! 



THE SEARCH 

(A story) 

From out the covert silence of life's deep, 
As sinks its path or winds along the steep, 
Early or late, e'er and anon, floats clear, 
A stealthy note upon the spirit ear. 
Earth's sordid cares, insistent, stifle. Vain 
We'd drown it in the bustle of life's strain 



POEMS 43 

Thoughtful or reckless grow we, but again 

That note shall fall. 

'Mid life's ambitions, pleasure's revels, high, 

Cloaked in the robe of proud philosophy, 

Oblivious thou of past and future, wrapped 

In faith of present absolute, entrapped 

In speculations wise, truth's well have tapped. 

Comes yet the call. 

Hark to the hint of discord on the air, 

Twang inharmonious, to the unmarred ear 

And startling, mingled in the ruined tone, — 

Note of indictment for a treason done ! 

A treachery of dissonance, my own, 

Doth haunting, roll. 

No figment this, no dream, no bondage to 

Teachings dogmatic; e'en th' unbroken row 

Must start from germ original — and man. 

Where'er in varied zone or age we scan 

Him, science-trained or wild in savage clan. 

Sense of default as self-accusing ban, 

Hangs on his soul. 

Spirit, unsatisfied with knocking, knock! 
Ghost of unrest, how dost thou never down ? 
O wanderer, troubled, gropest blindly back 
Through dimlit chambers till thou find thine own 
Gethsemane ? 

No diver for the gems of Oman's sea. 
No frozen seeker for earth's storied pole, 
No pilgrim, compassless, on desert lea. 
So seeks, as seeks fond ear of thirsting soul, 
Lost harmony. 
One song I'd sing, one simple story tell, — 



44 POEMS 

I cannot hold my peace, desire doth swell 

To waken in each soul an echo clear 

That still would say, "Him that hath ears to hear, 

Oh, let him hear!" 

Say ye, "fanatic fancy now doth weave," 

Nor recognize clear reason skilled to cleave 

Vain sophistries, conceits that would deceive? — 

Know ! Senses fresh from Nature's flawless brand. 

Mind set in brain, strong, normal, sharply clear, 

Work unwarped, virgin from the Master hand 

Can challenge bear. 

One morn, one springtime morn, of long gone past, 

Calm as the past that e'en the gods shake not, 

'Cross smiling field toward the silent wood 

Took I my way, as to some Druid spot. 

Fit fane for restless mood. 

In vain, the choiring frog from sedgy pond 

Sends forth its croaky note. The early bee 

Stirs wasted fragrance from the boughs above. 

Nor quickens now the wonted sympathy 

To moan of distant dove. 

Each handmaid sense is locked. The master soul. 

Deaf to such call, strides forth in labored quest — 

Determined search for what shall make it free. 

Soul-free? Yes, free from thine own self — a rest 
From fruitless warfare for the mastery 
Of ever-treacherous will that low hath pressed 
That higher self that calleth still to thee. 
Thou soul that seekest truth, that knowest quite. 
Thyself, part of a system, true, complete. 
Wherein truth dwelleth fair as virgin light 



POEMS 45 

That out of chaos traceth order sweet, 

'Bove wretched dronings that too heavy ring, 

Hear well, thine ears? — 

Part integral of scheme, a unison 

Where dwelleth truth, as soul ethereal, clear, 

Vibrant, in concord with th' Eternal One, 

And keyed all true, sharp on thy roused ear 

Strikes half-forgotten note as stars did sing 

Song of the spheres? 

And "What is truth ?" the careless Pilate asks 

Of Truth Incarnate, Him, that awful, stands 

To teach truth concrete, and its answer give. 

Comes not one word! 
Yet Buddha, Plato, earnest Socrates, 
Fine-keyed and deep, with yearning ear pressed close, 
Soul, body, will, beyond earth's measure tense, 
Caught true the wondrous answer — consonance. 
O seers subtle, charged with truth's effluence. 
How read ye truth? Some cold abstraction gaunt, 
Born of mind's divination cold — or thrills 
There, with a thrill unspeakable, touch with 
The Soul of Souls? 
No personality! How see ye it? — 
Some widowed, barren concept cold conceived? — 

Truth-hating Baalam's far-flung vision grudged 
Yet owned Him, seeing **but not now," and Him 
Beholding, "but not nigh." Lo, He Himself 
No other is ! 

Through many-godded labyrinthine maze, 
Instincts unwarped, reflecting upward, speed. 
Nor argue otherwise, a deity. 

And truth did Abraham find : his will effaced, 



46 POEMS 

Merged he, his own in God's, and met Him there. 
And Jewish Jacob wrestled all the night, 
Night of the soul's deep search. Asleep, awake, 
"I wrestle till the daybreak, nor will I 
Let Thee go." The soul resolved, determined. 
Stood fast till darkness, pierced of ladder's light, 
Away from truth did flee — and Jacob there 
Sat with his God. 

As, absently, the Searcher onward passed. 

Rose there from heart unsatisfied a cry, — 

*'0 Thou Creator, Cause of all without. 

As all within me, come! Thee have I sought — 

Thee, spotless, pure, and just ! Though I have lien 

Among the pots — with silvered wings Thou gav'st,- 

Untarnished wings, till dark with soot and broke — 

Toward Thee still I'd soar. I cannot rest. 

Thy truth I know. Thy wrath I feel, dark, dread. 

All terrible, — and I no refuge have. 

Life's golden circlet now quite riven is, 

Its metal, dimmed of dross, and dissonant, 

The loose end sagging in the dirt, the tone, 

Muffled, untrue. 

And oh, to me, Great Master, Judge, Thou stem 

And angry art. Guilty before thee, Cain, 

Defenseless Cain I am. unclothed and dumb. 

Fear choketh love, and, starved, desire I but 

Life's mercy — peace. Yes, from a ruined peace, 

A rest. The outcast is at bay, nor truth 

Can cover me. 

God of my being, this cannot I bear. 

Long, Thee, I've sought, expectant waited. On 



POEMS 47 

Thy altars sacrificial have I laid 
Each sin, each loathsome flaw that discord makes 
Against truth's law. From Thee, hide I my face — 
Thing alien, dark, misshapen thing I am. 
Look not on me !" 

"E'er the sweet field was compassed, e'er my hand 
Stretched forth to loose the peaceful greenwood bars, 
Planted, my feet, as fate itself, stood fast — 
Summed I my creed, resolved with all resolve, — 
My cry, "God of my soul. Thou hearest not 
Nor heedest me, despised, unnoted. At 
Thy feet I lie, and long have lain, but this 
Know I, and ever shall I know — that Thee 
I serve, and serving only Thee, e'en though 
There never come, a welcoming to me, — 
Dread God of truth and power, God fathomless, 
/ search for Thee." 
As on I strode and ever further on. 
In mood, calm, cool, as quiet woodland breeze, 
Mind's faculties in poise and balance true — 
As equal dwells a universe in poise — ■ 
Jealous, as though a vision keen did mark 
Itself, there came and calmly dwelt in seat 
Of darkness, light ; in place of fear, a love — 
Instead of dread, unshriven dread, a trust — 
Oh, trust complete! 

soul's song of peace 

Light of my soul, awaken ! 

O morning, wake ! 

Spirit, from darkness, quicken ! 



48 POEMS 

O grim night, break! 

How moveth on thy waters, 

Untroubled Hght 

Freed from thy bond of fetters? — 

Free as thy flight. 

Fear for my soul, where is it? 

Beyond all bliss. 

The joy of love exquisite 

And limitless, 

Till stealing soft and wondrous, 

Its glow did touch 

With touch supreme, stupendous, 

'Yon mortal reach. 

Broke o'er my soul a rest, as never broke, — 

O'erladen long, 

O'er generate heart, a love as trembling spoke 

Its note of song. 

Trust, only trust, for claims infinite liened, 

On One content 

The harmony of heaven had intervened 

For earth's lament. 

Peace, perfect peace ! Peace as a river rolled, 
From heights reverb'rate, on from star to star,- 
Rose, as a golden mist that did unfold, 
Peace, measureless, beyond all beauty. Far 
Diffused as glory, through the worlds untold, 
A peace, unspeakable and perfect rolled ! 
Peace, perfect peace! 



POEMS 49 



TWILIGHT DREAMINGS 

The gloom is gathering round me and its shades 
Are falling on my weary heart and brain, 

V^ague and unreal, as the daylight fades 
Across the dusky plain. 

And like the daylight dying on my view 
My daytime's self, with all its weight of care. 

Glides from me, and with hungry soul I woo 
A milder, kindlier sphere: — 

The land of waking dreams, where I behold 

All that, with longing heart, I've waited for before 

Come willing to my eager yearning fold 
To mock me now no more. 

I revel in the fullness that I feel, 

And like the panting hart beside the stream, 
I quench the fires of thirst that o'er me steal. 

And yield me to my dream. 

The past, with vain regrets, a cumbrous train, — 
The future, with its dreadings, undefined ; — 

In pity leave me to this happier vein. 
With not a care behind. 

And now, forgetful of my real state, 

I range the realms of fancy unrestrained, 

Nor deem them cold, unreal, increate, 
Because so lightly gained. 



50 POEMS 

1 call around me friends that dwell afar, 

Beyond the tide, or 'cross the mountain chain. 

And swift, as borne on wings of evening air. 
They come, a phantom train. 

And there are some who to these evening trysts 
A holier influence lend, a strange delight; 

I feel their presence wrap me like the mists 
That gather with the night. 

Their eyes beam on me with a milder light 

Than ere the chilling hand had damped their 
flame. 

And in their hallowed depths I read aright, — 
They love me just the same. 

Swift as they come, my trusting heart doth speed 
With unreserved confidence to twine 

Its fullest self, with these my friends, indeed. 
Since death hath sealed them mine. 

Into the long closed ears that ope again 
To catch the sweets of intercourse, I pour 

The tale of broken hopes, of visions vain, 
Whose memories rankle sore 

Within my living heart, which still must wake 
To put on other hopes. Must I my faith restore 

To these that even swifter wing may take 
And mock me as before? 

Oh, best-loved school friend of my early day, 
Whose shade doth join me as I dreaming, lie, 

Thy face comes foremost in the pale array 
That nightly passeth by. 



POEMS 51 

How oft in truant hour you've gazed with me 
Into life's luring vista, as it opened up 

In gorgeous tints on our rapt fantasy ! 
Oh, 'twas a flattering cup 

Which youth's young hope held to our glowing lip — 
A glorious mirror, where reflected lay 

Each hue and tint, each joy that we would sip, 
Through life's long gala day. 

Oh, from the heights of yonder fadeless sphere 
Where dreams do mock not, nor fond hopes decay, 

Hast thou not watched, with friendship's pitying 
tear, 
Our visions melt away? 

Chill night is gathering, and my dream must end, 
I wake and call my ruder self to me. 

To meet the shock that waits on all who blend 
Dreams with reality. 

As some late summer floweret, that hath basked 
In summer's sunshine, spreading all the day 

Its fullest self, with every fiber tasked 
To catch the genial ray — 

Feels suddenly the breath of autumn creep 
Cold from the brow of yonder distant hill, 

And folds each straying petal close to keep 
Its inner self from chill. 

So I, as creeps the breath of consciousness 
That wafts me back to stern reality. 

Draw home the tendrils of my heart that press 
To twine so tenderly, 



52 POEMS 

Lest in this bleaker clime to which I wake 
They die of thirst, or perish of the cold : 

A prisoner of my wayward heart I make, 
Lest it should spurn control. 

But, tell me, is there not some genial sphere 
From clouds and frosts and rude a wakings free. 

Where each fair bud of hope may blow, nor fear 
A swift fatality? — 

Where, when life's gloom is gathering, I may look, 
And gather light to thread the shadowy way. 

Sure that death's gloom, so dread to brook, 
Shall usher in the day? 

LOST 

A note is lost to some reft heart's full chord. 

And life's sweet undertone sinks to a wail ; 
The star fades out from some fond gazer's sky 

And leaves but night's impenetrable veil. 
A voice is mute that to my ear was dear. 

An eye is quenched that to my own was light, 
A soul whose strange, sweet spell my spirit knew 

Hath passed into th' illimitable night. 

And will sweet Nature smile as she hath done, 

And spring-birds sing and beauteous flowers bloom, 
And soft, low breezes bear the tones of love 

Still through the ceaseless roll of years to come? 
Oh, voice, awake! Oh, eyes beloved, but gaze 

In mine again as in the vanished days! 
Oh, star, come back! Oh, broken chord, restore 

To my dark soul the melody once more! 



POEMS 53 

THE SUN IS GOING DOWN 
(Tom and Bill) 

We've met again to-day, Bill, 

The years of youth are flown; 
We're on the sunset side life's hill 

And the sun agoing down. 

Your face brings back the early wreck 

Of dreams so early born — 
The hopes, the joys of fooHsh boys, 

That perished with the morn. 

How has life gone with you. Bill? 

Didst win the prize betime? 
Of wealth, of love, didst have thy fill 

Ere waned the zest of prime? 

I need not ask, — an idle task, 

To seek what's easy known ; 
You've won a fame, you've made a name, 

But the sun is going down ! 

And you as plainly see. Bill, 

That luck's been hard on me 
Since through the dell with blue-eyed Nell 

We roamed, we loved, — we three. 

Her love was thine, — the blow was mine, 

When ere her radiant noon. 
Life's crystal urn spilled forth its wine 

And my heart's sun went down. 



54 POEMS 

Life's burden lightly took I up, — 

As light, I lay it down; 
Quafifed joyous of its early cup, 

Was patient 'neath its frown. 

Though hard I wrought, it little brought. 
Nor wealth, nor joy, renown : — 

What boots it. Bill, if good or ill, 
Now the sun is almost down? 

'Tis faith, not fortune, counts, Bill, 
In the land where Nell has flown ; 

I'll sleep as sweet as you, Bill, 
When the sun is quite gone down. 

Beside our Nell, — ^t foot the hill, 
'Twill all be well when all is still ; 

I'll sleep as sweet as you. Bill, 
With the sun forever down. 



TO MARY 

'Tis hard to see the flow'ret's blush 
And feel it bloometh not for me ; 

It scarce brings joy to hear the gush 
Of waters bright, we may not see. 

Sweet music borne on evening breeze 

Perchance spreads sadness o'er the powers 

So prompt the jealous thought to bear, 
'Tis born for other ears than ours. 



POEMS 55 

'Tis better ne'er to dream of joys 
And ne'er be mindful there are such ; 

It chafes the heart, it bHghts, destroys, 
To feel, alas, we may not touch. 

The pangs that linger far exceed 

The fleeting thrill of short-lived bliss, 

I curse brief joy so quick to lead 
To gnawing, lasting pain like this. 

E'en Paradise so well bepraised 

Would prove to peace a cruel snare 

If we must chill the bliss it raised 
With thought we may not enter there. 

Oh, rather tread some barren wild 
Of fens and brakes and serpents full 

Than thread the fairest field that smiled 
With blossoms which we might not cull. 

As some poor wretch, enchained fast. 
Sees richest banquet spread around, — 

His hungry soul turns off aghast 

When no spare crumb for him is found. 

How can I mark the smiles that play 
Around the lips I may not press? 

How watch thine eyes' bewildering ray 
And still no word, no touch, caress? 

So, Mary, though 'tis bliss to bow 

Before thy shrine while thou art nigh, 

I'd better leave thy worship now 
Than linger near to pine and die. 



56 POEMS 



THEN AND NOW 

Thou canst not wake it now ; no, not one thrill ; 

And though I grieve that aught so fair should fade, 
I may not stay its flight, my pulses still, 

And the sweet dream is dead. 

There was a time, I know not why, but then 
Thou, to my holden eyes a god wert clothed — 

But more than any winged Olympian, 
And tenderer far, wert loved; — 

A love so pure, an angel's snowy breast 
It had not soiled; so true, it e'en had died 

That thou of all that heaven and earth held best 
Might be well satisfied; — 

So, dear, thy head beloved, it fain had held 

Pressed sacred, close, where woman loves to hold 

What she loves dearest — to a heart that thrilled 
With tenderness untold — 

So strong, no hand but thine could move 

The love that not from strength nor beauty grew — 

The love of sorrow born — the tenderest love 
A woman's heart e'er knew. 

Once did thy voice like some rich lutestring roll 

Its vibrant tones as music on my ear, 
And woke throughout the palace of my soul. 

The trembling echoes there. 



POEMS 57 



And thy sweet coming, my fond heart was wont 
To greet as do the birds the dawn, or as the flower 

To smile and shake away night's tears, content 
To yield me to thy power. 

How is it all is calm and pulseless now? 

Thy coming stirs not, nor thy rich tones thrill? 
No incense rises, nor the heart's deep vow — 

And broken is the spell. 

My soul had magnified thee — the ideal 

So worshipped was one lordly, high ; 
The scales have fallen, and I see as real 

Where all was fantasy. 

Yet, for the sake of that dear vanished dream 
Whose going hath left all so dark and chill 

Save its sweet mem'ry that like sunset's gleam 
Departing, crowns the night-enshrouded hill — 
Unto my heart, — almost, — thou'rt sacred still. 



THE MYSTERY 

Un memoriam. Prof. J. A. T. Obiit, MDCCCLXXVIH) 

The earnest traveler o'er life's thoroughfare, 
Intent upon the goal, and diligent. 
Halts ere the course is done, and quietly 
Drops from the ranks and lays his sandals by. 

The busy tiller in the teeming field. 
Whose heart and hand strive constant in the work, 
Sinks nerveless from his loved but half-wrought task 
And casts aside the implements of toil. 



58 POEMS 

The ardent student probing science' depths, 
Whose kindhng breast beats high in eager search, 
In midst of uncrowned quest, untimely faints, 
And meekly closes the unfinished page. 
The sire whose heart, paternal, fondly glowed 
In warmth of sweet domestic tenderness, 
Lo, strangely now forsakes his little fold, 
And leaves to others' care his dearest charge. 

O traveler, why didst shun th' unmeasured way? 
How, husbandman, desert the waiting field? 
Why, student, quit thine eager quest half gained ? 
And, kinsman, hadst thou dearer ties unseen? 

From o'er the confines floats the answer back : — 
*'0 seeker, earthbound, whose imprisoned gaze 
Reads not from starry heights the outspread plan, 
Nor vision penetrates the crystal sphere 
Where all that puzzled once is made so plain, 
Learn, things of earth are in themselves but naught, 
Save as they tend to fashion well the soul ; 
The worker there, and not the work's supreme ; 
And strange! the reflex is the direct end. 
What the poor stone that whets the royal blade ? 
This service done, 'tis lightly cast aside 
As naught, now that the trenchant edge is set 
For loftier work in glory's grander field. 
Whate'er thy hand doth find, do with thy might. 
Thy soul growing earnest, loyal in the fight. 
The worker's perfected ; the work is done ! 
Receive the plaudit and up higher come." 



POEMS 59 

Father, we thank thee for this lifting of the veil ; 
For one erect in manhood's glorious prime, 
In proud success and labors infinite, 
Hath strangely left all that he loved, and gone 
From us, dumbstruck with this cold mystery. 

SORROW 

(A fragment) 

Oh, in our hour of helpless sorrowing. 
The soul's high instinct spurning finite bonds. 
Spans swift the abyss of doubt, — on loftier wing — 
One impulse piercing through the gloom, and wends 
Unerring up to the All in All. 

And Thou who hearest the quirings of the cherubim, 
Yet markest, too, the lonely night-bird's chant — 
Who formest worlds or setest the spheres' proud 

hymn. 
Wilt bow Thine head to catch our anguished plaint 
And ope Thine ear to fainting sorrow's call. 

Thou who dost fill the stilly solitude. 
Or thunder in the angry stormcloud's path. 
Dost stoop to paint the floweret of the wood 
And whisper in the evening's sjumbrous breath; — 
The same shalt note our cry and lift the darksome pall. 

Our highest thought a futile fragment is, 
Our purest joys all strangely incomplete; 
Our loftiest aim than man's high birthright less, 
That resteth short of who alone can meet 



6o POEMS 

The quenchless thirst of immortality. 

Oh, teach us, Source of Truth, that final truth, 
That man, by searching, doth not find out God: 
E'en in our heart Thy witness is and doth. 
Than reasoning's tongue, teach better understood 
That deep, prophetic consciousness of Thee ! 

The eye for light, light for the eye, was made, 
Who questioneth? — or more, the soul for God? — 
Oh, Thou who dost its inmost depths pervade 
And satisfiest quite, each varying mood, 
Make Thou our wandering, sightless eyes to see 
Thy beckoning Hand and learn to rest in Thee. 



LUCILLE 

{Died at eighteen) 

Maid of the sapphire eye. 
Dost thou, too, silent lie? 
Breathing nor smile nor sigh. 
Sleeping nor dreaming? 

Gone art thou from our gaze? 
Hushed now thy gladsome lays? 
Ceased the sweet sportive ways, 
Dull care redeeming? 

But one short hour agone. 
Called we thy sweets our own ; 
Now is the temple lone, 
Dark and deserted. 



POEMS 6i 



Fair as the Shulamite, 
Glance, like the firefly's light, 
Quenched in death's chilly night, 
Ah ! gentle hearted ! 

Chased like the smile of day 
By some dark cloud away. 
Maiden lost, where astray? 
Whither departed? 

'Scaped life's gross prison bars. 
Loosed from earth's sordid cares, 
Soarest above the stars. 
Mysteries dividing? 

Gleam on thy raptured sight. 
Splendors of glories bright. 
Wreathing the Home of Light, 
Ever abiding? 

Know'st thou what sages sought. 
Secrets no wrestling brought. 
Things hidden, yet unwrought. 
Locked with th' Eternal? 

Fresh, yet, the dew of mom, 
Why, why so early gone? 
Scarce had the shadows drawn, 
Dimmed hours supernal ! 

Broke on thy waiting ear 
Tones from the land afar. 
Floating through gates ajar. 
Thy spirit stealing? — 



62 POEMS 

Music of circling spheres, 
Cadence of angel choirs, 
Drowning weak human fears, 
Earth's hold unsealing? 

Grave, oh ! remorseless, stay ! 
Claim not the fairest prey; 
Broad now enough thy sway; 
Know'st no relenting? 

When time hath heaped the years, 
Wilt thou not to our tears, 
This best beloved of ours, 
Restore, repenting? 

Lo, sweet the voice of faith 
Stealing soft, whispereth 
That thou dost know of death 
Naught but the dying: 

And though dark sorrow's night 
O'erclouds our better sight. 
Still doth hope's tender light 
Break on our sighing. 



SMITHFIELD* ' 

{On the death of Mrs. Wm. Ballard Preston) 

Alone in its beauty, old Smithfield now stands, 
Like a crown on the brow of its broad-acred lands, 
And the sunshine slants down from its mountains of 
blue 

* The Seat of the Prestons of Virginia, 



POEMS 63 

With a light that is chastened to tenderer hue, 
As it tips the gray rooftree or kisses the flowers 
That once bloomed to gladden the loved ones of ours. 
Though lone and deserted thy halls be to-day, 
Though sad in the silence of voices once gay, 
They've known days of glory when the old state was 

grand. 
They've welcomed her knighthood when knightly the 

land. 
Truth, honor, and valor their home have had here — 
What most in her glory Virginia held dear. 
Ah, sad in their beauty, thy gardens and grove, 
Though soft through their bowers the glad zephyrs 

rove! 
The mocking-bird pours forth his clear swelling note 
And as, in the old time, the robin songs float. 
But sunbeam nor bird-note can lighten its tone 
The shell — it is empty ! The pearl — it is gone ! ■ 
Is it Smithfield of yore, this desolate place? — 
It mourns now the last gentlest flower of its race 
That the high noon of fortune nor earth's wrecking 

storm 
Could waste of its beauty nor rob of its charm — 
That of life's day aweary — too frail for its length. 
Was yet strong in its weakness and meek in its 

strength ? 
Oh, we miss from thy portals that figure of grace — 
Yes, we miss from thy hearthstone the light of a face — 
Oh, lost from thy echoes, the tone of a voice. 
That wept with the weeping or bade joy rejoice. 
There is gone from thy keeping a spirit so rare 
That broke is thy beauty, and shattered and bare. 



64 POEMS 

Shall we hear them no more, the sweet melodies, 
Of Ireland's bard for the land that was his — 
As they rose from her throat? How memory warms 
When "Believe me if all those endearing young 

charms'' 
Floats again through these chambers — the dear plaint- 
ive lay 
That so oft was her song at the close of the day ! 
I have watched for her presence the roses among, 
Vainly hushed me to catch the sweet voice of her song, 
But her harp-seat is vacant, its strings, they are dumb 
As the lips of the singer, — her heart that is numb. 
I'll seek her no more 'mid thy loved haunts, old home, 
Life's lessons are learned and its holidays come. 

The chrysalis cast, — its bright tenant hath room. 
The dull calyx, burst, — the glad flower is in bloom! 
The spirit hath broken its way through the bars. 
The soul, it hath found its new home 'mong the stars. 



"UNCLE" HENRY'S GRAVE 

{Tlie Negro Slave of my Ancestors) 

On the hillside where the sedges 
Bow before the zephyr's breath, 

'Neath the hoary oak of ages 

Sleeps, the saint of God, in death. 

Meek his heart as valley flow'ret, 
Strong his faith as mountain oak, 

Pure his life as crystal streamlet 
Gushing from the living rock. 



POEMS 65 

What tho' here his race despised, 

And his lot remote from fame? 
To One Eye, naught stands disguised. 

Swart or fain 'tis but the same. 

No proud stone inscribed with praises 

Marks his lowly resting-place; 
But the sunbeams and the daises 

Wrap it in a fit embrace. 

Lo ! on eye of faith a vision 

Breaks in wondrous radiance bright, 

As tho' by some strange elision 

Earth were bathed in heaven's own light — 

This the spot, and angels hastening 

Hither rouse the sable clay, 
Bear it, starlike now and glistening, 

Up to realms of endless day. 

THE DEATH OF HARRY ROSS* 

[In Memoriam) 

Did you hear the plaintive heaving on the midnight as 

it fell. 
Of a spirit as 'twas leaving its long-held citadel? 
Did'st mark the mute farewell? 

* Died on the night of January 2 in the east building of 
H. I., Harry Ross, aged five years and some months. His 
remains were interred from the residence of his friend, 
Miss M. M. P., on the eve of the 4th inst., followed by a 
large concourse to their final resting place. 
"Resquiescat in horto in pace." 



66 POEMS 

'Tvvas the spirit of music rarest, that did wing itself 

away 
From a form among the fairest of all fashioned from 

earth's clay — 
Do you grieve it could not stay? 
For a lustrum it hath held us with its cadence and its 

swell, 
And breathless oft compelled us as with power of 

magic spell 
To list as soft it fell. 
It hath lingered till the New Year with its first-born 

sabbath time, 
Reluctant to subdue cheer with its knell 'mid Christmas 

chime, 
Though chilled by our rude clime. 
Did the spring delay its coming with its flowers and 

perfume. 
And the bright bee's murmurous humming 'mid the 

gladsome orchards bloom 
That thou fled'st stern winter's gloom? 
How strange, how cold the story, how it grates upon 

the ear 
That no longer in life's glory thou dwellest anywhere ! 
The thought, how strangely drear ! — 
That the light of eyes so gentle from their depths for 

e'er is fled — 
Is quenched 'neath death's cold mantle which o'er thy 

breast is spread ! 
Must we realize thee dead ? 
We knew that Death was cruel, but we had not thought 

he'd come 
To steal our harmless jewel from out its little home. 



POEMS 67 

How could he smite thee dumb ! 

Did not his cold hand quiver as he drew the fatal dart 

To still the pulse forever, within thy guileless heart? 

Deemed he this a kingly part? 

Thee, our grateful love would bear beyond these realms 
of sense. 

And for thy wondrous graces here, another life dis- 
pense 

As thy meet recompense. 

Thou art passed beyond our vision, we shall hear thee 
now no more 

As with grace ancT tone Elysian, thou thy melody did'st 
pour. 

Regret, cans't thou restore ? 

But yet, O sweet dead singer, whom nor eyes nor ears 
pursue, 

Whom the yearnings deep that linger can bring not 
back to view, 

Memoi-y to thee'll be true. 

We have laid thee from our gazing 'mid the garden's 
smiling bowers, 

Thy cherished ashes placing, where they'll mingle with 
the flowers, 

Thou best-loved pet of ours ! 

But, Harry, when the springtime shall wake the song- 
sters fair. 

And summer, in its glorious prime, shall bring them 
'round us here — 

When from this joyous chorus we miss thy well-known 
note, 



68 POEMS 

Nor from the cage before us no answering voice shall 

float,— 
We'll glance toward the garden there 
And silent turn to hide a tear. 



THE LAST LETTER 
(Dear Ida) 

A fragile, seared, faded thing, 

It rustles 'neath my finger's haste; 

My heart, a heavy lump, is still. 
For 'tis her letter — 'tis her last. 

Life's changes bore us leagues apart, 
Who once around one fireside grew, 

But letters came and kept the bond 

Of heart and thought and knowledge true. 

For years they came, all prompt and glad, 
Rounded and full and clear, the hand — 

And then they lagged; and scant and few, 
In feebly traced, uncertain strand. 

And well I knew the hand that traced 
Was faltering like the lines that came. 

And saw in each that feebler grew, 
The flicker of life's failing flame. 

And yet, so loyal was that heart. 
It still compelled the flagging frame. 

E'en until this did duly come, — 
And then, alas, no other came! 



POEMS 69 

They wrote me she was gone, but ah! 

Such words sank not into my heart, 
It could not be, for still to me, 

'Twas only we were leagues apart. 

But days roll by, and weeks, and years, — 
The shadowy truth so dark and dumb 

Grows heavier as I hopeless mark 
That now no more the letters come. 



LIZ, 1897 

Art thou passed beyond our greeting — 
Greetings of the glad New Year? 

Shall we send them to all others, 
None, alas, to one so dear? 

Did'st thou shrink as thou did'st enter 
That new land so strange, untried? 

Leaving all the friends that cherished. 
Came there others to thy side? 

Hearts are heavy, Liz, at parting. 

Deep, undying, our regret. 
And amid the ceaseless yearning 

Comes the thought. Canst thou forget? 

Spring shall come and smiling summer 
Bring the birds from southern home — 

Not again with birds or seasons 
Shall our absent loved one come. 



yo POEMS 

Chill and gloom and snowy mantle 
Linger where thy dust doth lie ; 

Warmth and light and fairer raiment 
Hath the land where angels fly. 

Thou art gone, but we shall follow, 
And sweet hope doth conquer pain; 

Forward, hearts, unto the meeting! 
Death, thou robbest us in vain! 



MODEST SWAIN CUTS UNEXPECTED 
FIGURE 

{Mock heroic) 

The day was bright, the noon was high, 
The midday meal was scarcely o'er. 
Upon the lawn we idly strolled. 
And, listless, dreamed of nothing more. 
But hist! what wakes the drowsy ear? 
What vision stirs the languid eye? 
What is it — like a meteor bright — 
In rolling splendor speedeth by? — 
A chariot swift as bore the prize 
From Elis' course in classic day — 
A steed whose furious spirit spurned 
The very earth that 'neath him lay; — 
Within, a maiden's beaming face 
Was lit with radiant ecstasy. 
And at her side a Jehu swain 
A ten-foot whip cracked gallantly. 
Not human breasts alone were fired 



POEMS 7\ 

By this heroic pageantry — 
Three frenzied pups did follow close 
In pandemonium rivalry. 
Dumbstruck we stood, in rapture lost, 
And watched the vision breathlessly, 
And felt that life must henceforth be 
The grander for such scenery. 



LITTLE SARAH 

{O-biit July 10, 1909) 

Little one, little one, weakened and worn, 
Mother so misses thee, mother forlorn: 
Did'st think she had wearied of cough and of moan? 
Oh, little one, little one, wherefore art gone? 

Wasn't mother as patient as patient could be, 
And gentle, O gentlest one, ever to thee? 
She seeketh thee everywhere, heartsore and lone. 
My own little stricken one, whither art gone? 

The toys lie silent, no little hands move, 
Little garments hang idle that robed my lost love, 
The cradle is vacant — no form and no tone — ^ 
O patient, O gentle one, whither hast flown? 

Sweet mother, seek not where no longer I be. 
Look higher, dear mother, look higher and see! 
Thy lamb hath not strayed — the Good Shepherd hath 

called, 
Thou wert kind to thy lambkin, but, oh, He hath 

healed! 



72 POEMS 

I was sick — lam well; I was maimed — I am whole^ — 
As faultless this body as stainless my soul. 
No cloud can hang o'er me, no blemish arise, 
Look, mother! He hath laid His dear hand on my 
eyes. 



FABLE OF THE FOX AND THE GOOSE 

(Modern version) 

Once on a time by natural chance 
('Twas in America or France) 
A mighty and mysterious case 
Was given Attorney Fox to trace: 
The point on which the case would turn 
Was one of authorship, we learn. 
Ready, as all attorneys are. 
For any work, be't foul or fair, 
He stood, determined to descry, 
Somewhere, the dark identity : 
And prying round, a froward wight. 
So wise, he could tell day from night. 
Who owned no problem too abstruse. 
Turned s'picion t'ward a harmless goose, 
Alas, for Mercy, gentle maid. 
In pity's garb divine arrayed! 
Go veil thy face, shocked at the sight 
Of such unequal foes in fight. 
He of a race esteemed the cutest, 
Hers one of talent destitutest; 
His wit by law's tuition sharpened, 
Hers, small by race, by sex is weakened. 



POEMS 73 

But Right's proud triumph sure is treble 

In case her instrument is feeble. 

To browbeat first — this was his plan, 

When, having got the upper hand, 

By subtle questions he'd confound her, 

And weave a hopeless spell around her. 

Then fuddled, helpless, and dismayed 

By lawyer's honest tricks of trade. 

And wound up quite, by cunning feat. 

She'd witness 'gainst herself complete. 

But really, lest you won't believe it 

We'll show you how he tried t' achieve it. 

And give a sample of the logic 

He used to execute his project. 

The hapless goose, on witness stand — 

The learned counsel thus began: — 

"Now, goose, you cert'nly wrote this letter: 

Oh, don't deny it; I know better." 

Confused by method so intense 

The simple goose made poor defense; 

Indeed, the only kind she offered 

Was much like that of luckless Stafford. 

'Twas plain to all, th' attorney's drift 

Was not so much the truth to sift 

As to convict; 'tis only base 

To fail in making out your case. 

"You wrote this letter; that is clear. 
For sure it was postmarked from here. 
This proof alone is quite conclusive; 
But lest it might be deemed delusive, 
I'll cite another, which must stand, — 



74 POEMS 

This writing's in a goose's hand. 

And last and strongest proof, and best, 

I know you wrote it: — Now confess." 

The force of this at once is seen 

To be exceptionally keen, 

When 'tis remembered, this same post 

Was used in common by a host. 

This point, tho' strong, the second's stronger, 

And logic proves it couldn't wrong her; 

What tho' in numbers unco' great 

Geese thereabout did congregate? 

A syllogism (somewhat loose) 

Fixes the charge upon this goose. 

And last, he *'knew it" : which is final 

To any logical tribunal. 

Not bigot dogmatist of old 

Took ground more broad or stand more bold ; 

And what tho' argument were wanting, 

There was but better room for ranting, 

For what a "limb" doth lack in sense 

He well makes up in impudence. 

So logic-loyal is man's brain 

He here had seen reply were vain; 

But female heads, devoid of reason, 

Discern not when a thing is proven. 

Yet she, convinced she must have writ it. 

Was contemplating to admit it 

When, strange to say ! a wise suggestion 

Compelled a different view o' the question. 

*'A fool for luck," you know 'tis said. 

And Truth advancing, brought her aid, 



POEMS 75 

Explaining that perliaps 'twere better 
To have some higher reason set her 
.For owning what she did not do, 
Than that another said he knew. 
Thus at -one stroke is dissipated 
His purpose ahiiost consummated, — 
As lawyer's labor's always vain 
When Truth appears upon the plain, 
And like the weird enchanter's spell 
Dissolves before her magic will. 

MORAL 

With truth for an ally, the feeble and weak 
May hope the strong toils of the wicked to 

break : 
To an imp, holy water may prove a destroyer, 
But there's nothing like truth when you're 

fighting a lawyer. 

(Anser.) 



THE BURNING OF THE STABLES 
AT NIGHT 

The earth lay bathed in silvery light, , 
A zephyr scarce did greet the night. 
The waters murmured softly near, 
And nature slumbered, — all but fire, 
Whose secret, silent, deadly work 
In stealthy course no eye might mark, — 
Till on the midnight leaped the flame 
And wrapped, with hungry tongue, its game. 



76 POEMS 

Not human life, the victim now; 
The craven fiend a dastard blow 
Strikes the defenseless; — but a prey 
That oft is nobler in its way 
Than falt'ring man. Woe, woe, the hour 
That made our gallant steeds its dower! 
And did we sleep while anguish moved 
The docile, faithful hearts we loved? 
Oh, had we known, we'd broke a lance 
With Death himself, in swift defense. 
Men call you brutes, but who may tell 
What in those voiceless breasts did swell- 
Or, if in equine language passed. 
Swift converse on the burning blast? 
Did brawny Robin turn to Ghent 
With fading pulse and breath nigh spent ? 
Or Tom to Jerry say, "All's o'er 
Unless they quick undo the door? 
We never yet refused to draw, — 
Our Master's wish was ever law — 
And yet they yield the faithful steed 
A banquet for the flame to feed." 
And Ham to Madge, "What better pluck 
Than ours for wagon, hack, or duck? 
But who'll be left to wear the gear 
If Nathan lets us perish here? — 
No wood to haul, no coal to bring? 
No plow to draw, the coming Spring? 
No future use for mettled speed 
That they forget us in our need?" 
And how received the fiery flood 
Our haughty barbs of gallant blood? 



POEMS 77 

Our Dan and George that shamed the wind 
And left the smoking track behind, — 
Too proud the Hghtest touch to brook — • 
How suffered they the flame's keen stroke — 
Our winged coursers that might dare 
The steeds of Phoebus from the air? 
And gentle John of patient grace, 
How bore him in the dread embrace? — 
As meekly, as day after day, 
He drew the cart along the way? 
And who might guess the mute despair 
That smote our little Julia there, 
As leaving Mary Stuart's side. 
She found the stable-door, and died? 
No more upon your friendly backs 
We'll skim the winding mountain tracks, 
But many suns shall rise and set 
Ere we our bonnie pads forget. 
To-day the sun shines just as bright 
As though Death held no feast last night; 
Here on the turf all fresh and green 
Our horses' tracks may yet be seen. 
And we still watch the meadow side 
Where sported beauty's graceful pride; 
But naught survives the nerveless clay 
Save what lives in our hearts to-day. 



78 POEMS 

BEPPO'S LAMENT FOR HIS MASTER 

I want to see my master, 

I wonder where he is ; 
We're growing fast and faster, 

Both I and Httle "Sis." 
'Twill soon be time to train us 

And Pm the proudest pup, 
And don't want other people 

To have my bringing up. 
Pm going to send my picture 

To show how sweet I am, — 
I think it is so charming 

'Twill surely make him come. 
I don't run after Flora, 

Pm trying to be a man, 
And growing smarter every day 

Fast as a puppy can. 
But what's the use to do it 

If master doesn't come? 
Oh, tell him I am losing heart, 

Maybe he'll hurry home. 
These girls, they try to spoil me, 

I don't e'en deign a smile, 
I am no woman's fancy pet, 

Pm quite another style. 
Tasso says I ought to hunt 

This fall, but I can't see 
How Pm to learn in time for that 

If you don't come to me. 
Pm smarter now than Tasso, 



POEMS 79 

And it does "rile me up" 
For him to sniff at me and say, 

"You stupid, ignorant pup!" 
You thought I wouldn't miss you 

(I was so little then) ; 
You thought I didn't know you 

From all the other men. 
Oh, yes, I did; and wondered 

What had become of you: 
They told me you had left me — 

I said it wasn't true. 
Carlo asks why I don't play, 

Sister quite gives me up — 
And Caesar, too, the other day, 

Said, "What a solemn pup !" 
My thoughts are all in , 

That's why I look so glum; 
How can a pup be blithe and gay 

Whose heart is not at home? 
I lay me down here in the sun 

And try to go to sleep, 
But there's no sunshine in my heart, 

And so, instead, I weep. 
Somebody told me yesterday 
You had asked after me — 
It made my little heart so glad 
I barked and played all day. 
Oh, Master, come, come right along 

And see your little pup. 
And then I'll promise you there'll be 

The grandest waking up. 



8o POEMS 



LAMENT FOR LITTLE BEPPO 

Only a little dog is dead; 
'Only a little dog," they said. 

And dogs are common things. 

But nature sometimes deigns to trace, 
And fashion with exquisite grace, 
These humble little things; 

And sets almost a human guise 
Within the tender, speaking eyes 
Of these dumb little things. 

Once on my lap a kiss somehow 
Fell on that winsome puppy brow — 
Kisses are loving things. 

And once, too, on the silken ear 
A silent, solitary tear — 

And tears are sacred things. 

O Death, thou shouldst not come so near 
Aught hallowed by a kiss or tear; 
Sure there are other things 

Than friends who have become too dear, 
Or pets beloved, to grace thy bier 
And wilt beneath thy stings. 

Only a puppy ! but I'd loved 
The gentle spirit that had moved 
On that mute puppy brow — 



POEMS 8i 

That loved to have my hand caress 

And give the fond, famiHar press, — 

The mem'ry hurts me now. 

On autumn's fields we'd fondly thought 
To watch the puppy's training sport, — 
And ah, it pleased us so! 

But on the happier hunting grounds 
Our pup shall make his maiden rounds, 
Nor wait the autumn's glow. 

His little life, — it scarce had bloomed, 
And puppy tricks and graces formed, 
Ere all is laid so low. 

You smile and say, "A fooHsh grief ! 
A dog!" But, oh, the joys of life 
Are made of little things. 

A puppy's step missed from the stair, 

A bird-note from the cage no more; 

Yes, — these are little things, 

And yet to me life's louder tones 
Leave still some room for little moans 
That rise from little things. 

And they, too, teach my hope to soar 
Toward the far-off, beauteous sphere 
Whence floats strange music on my ear, 
Nor discord on its wings ; 



82 POEMS 

For all is truth, nor fade they there, 
Our unblown hopes ere noon appear. 
But bloom unstained by sorrow's tear 
For great or little things. 



bEO ?ci 1911 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



DEC ft 15^ 



LIBRARY 



CONGRESS 




